


Let the Waves Up Take Me Down: Now

by Paraprosdokia (ChangeableConsistency)



Series: I Will Wait for You [5]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, Anal Sex, Ass Play, BAMF Clint Barton, BAMF Phil Coulson, Begging, Bloodplay, Blowjobs, Body Horror, Boot Worship, Brainwashing, Caning, Characters from other Fandoms as bad guys, Choking, Clint dies a lot, Cock & Ball Torture, Dehumanization, Despair, Dom Phil Coulson, F/M, Face-Fucking, Facials, Flashbacks, Forced Submission, Hand Feeding, Humiliation, Kneeling, Like A Lot A Lot, M/M, Mind Control, Multi, Mutilation, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Objectification, Orgasm Denial, Size Kink, Starvation, Sub Clint Barton, Suicidal Thoughts, Temporary Character Death, The Framework Universe (Marvel), Time Loop, Torture, extreme trauma, no seriously, non consensual BDSM, temporary amputation, temporary suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:41:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24206101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChangeableConsistency/pseuds/Paraprosdokia
Summary: How do you survive being made to hate everything you love, and to love everything you hate?The short answer is: You don’t.This is the long answer.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Ian Quinn, Clint Barton/John Garrett, Clint Barton/Original Character(s), Clint Barton/Phil Coulson
Series: I Will Wait for You [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1580395
Comments: 94
Kudos: 107





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the dark bit. Most of recovery/comfort will all be in the fics that come after. 
> 
> This can be skipped if you might find this disturbing or just want the comfort/recovery, though personally I think the recovery has more of an impact if you are able to read them.
> 
> Please be sure to read the tags; if I’ve inadvertently missed any let me know in the comments (anon commenting is on).
> 
> Well I came home  
> Like a stone  
> And I fell heavy into your arms  
> These days of dust  
> Which we've known  
> Will blow away with this new sun  
> — Mumford and Sons: I will wait for you
> 
> Now floating up and down  
> I spin, colliding into sound  
> Like whales beneath me diving down  
> I'm sinking to the bottom of my  
> Everything that freaks me out  
> The lighthouse beam has just run out  
> I'm cold as cold as cold can be  
> Be
> 
> Where is the coast guard?  
> I keep looking each direction  
> For a spotlight give me something  
> I need something for protection  
> Maybe flotsam junk will do just fine  
> The jets; I'm sunk; I'm left behind  
> I'm treading for my life, believe me  
> (How can I keep up this breathing?)  
> — Blue October: Into the Ocean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phil’s about to give Barton his five second warning when Barton speaks up, “Coulson. Something’s wrong.”
> 
> “Talk to me, Barton.”
> 
> “Shit. The room is being gassed. No idea how long. I’m… I’m…”
> 
> “Barton? Barton! _Clint_!” Phil Orders, praying for a response as he checks his gun and then the street before exiting the van, “ _Talk to me_!”
> 
> “Coulson... Coulson... Phil. I have to tell you. I have to say it. I have to... Phil, I love—”
> 
> “ _Clint? CLINT?!_ ”
> 
> It’s the last time Phil hears Clint’s voice for a very long time.

**#1: Day 1**

This is bad. 

Really bad. 

Clint’s strapped a metal bondage chair with articulated arms and legs. His feet are off the ground, legs bound together and secured to the chair, each arm likewise restrained from shoulder to wrist. He’s also belted down across his thighs, hips, chest, shoulders, and forehead. 

He’s actually a little flattered. 

“We know you’re awake, slut.”

Shit. 

That is definitely not a good sign. 

Clint opens his eyes to see three men, two heavily armed. One of the armed guards stands by the door, the other to the left and rear of the third man. Both guards have dark hair, olive skin, and dead lifeless eyes. The closer one is the larger of the two. Much larger, he’s taller and wider than Clint. In fact, he looks like he could break Clint in half without trying but Clint knows that isn’t who he has to worry about. 

Ian Quinn is tall and good looking in that ‘Ivy League trust fund baby’ sort of way, with dark brown hair and a cruel smile that doesn’t reach his cornflower blue eyes. The type of dom who’s never been told ‘no’ and lacks the imagination to consider it as a possibility. 

“Well. This is awkward,” Clint says with a smartass grin. 

The backhand doesn’t take him by surprise, but there’s nothing he can do about it as it crashes across his face.

“You will show respect you worthless—” 

And there it is again, the white hot rage feels like an old friend coming home after a long time away. Clint’s consumed up by the wrath that fills him. He’s learned to temper it over the years, to control it instead of letting it control him but he can’t stop the way his blood pounds in his head and his soul cries for vengeance. 

He spits in Quinn’s eye before he can finish his sentence. 

Bullseye. 

Clint never sees the knife that slits his throat. 

**#2: Day 1**

He’s choking on his own blood— 

No he’s strapped to a chair in a small room with Ian Quinn and a pair of goons. 

Oh, God. Was that a stroke?

“Let’s try that again.”

What the fuck is going on. 

He… he died.

He felt it. 

And then it was almost like the last three minutes never happened. 

Actually, it’s exactly like that. 

Big and Bad are back in precisely the same positions they were when Clint had first opened his eyes, not even a millimeter off. 

“You, slut, are going to learn some manners.”

“You, fuckwad, are going to feel my boot up your ass,” Not his best, but dying would throw anyone off, even if it was just a hallucination. 

It happens again, this time it feels like he’s drowning. His lungs somehow fill with water and he would claw at his throat if he could. He struggles violently as he dies for the second time in as many minutes. 

**#3: Day 1**

He can’t stop gasping, his eyes watering as he sucks in lungfuls of air. 

“You will _obey.”_

“Go fuck yourself.”

Dying in a vacuum isn’t any easier than drowning. 

**#12: Day 1**

“So? Are you ready to _obey_?”

“Hey. You fellas ever hear of autoerotic asphyxiation? Cuz if I get a vote—”

Oh goody. Another fire murder. 

**#60: Day 1**

“ _Obey._ ”

By Clint’s count it’s been about five hours, give or take. And you would think death would get boring after a certain point but each time is a fresh new hell. 

Somehow worse than that, it’s exhausting. The repeated Command followed by a jolt of pain and terror from dying every few minutes keeps pushing him further and further Down. He isn’t sure how much longer he can take it. 

**#76: Day 1**

“ _Obey_.”

“I… I… woah! Wait-wait-wait-wait. Don’t. Don’t. Fine. I’m listening.”

He’s floating just under the surface of subspace, barely a toe dipped in. His defenses are lowered and he can tell his judgment is impaired. He knows he’s supposed to be doing something. Something important. But he can’t remember what. He just… he just needs a second. Just five minutes without _fucking dying_. It’s— it’s strategic, he needs to find out what Quinn _really_ wants. 

“That doesn’t sound very obedient, slut.”

Clint swallows his snarl and grits out through clenched teeth, “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry…?”

Clint pushes involuntarily against his bondage.

“If you’re not ready we can go back to—”

“No. No. Don’t. You can— You can stop killing me. I told you. I’m listening. Just tell me what you want.”

“What I want is for you to _learn your place, you half-feral, worthless slut.”_

He manages to tamp down on his rage, clenching his fists and holding back his sneer. 

“Someone must have trained you to have basic manners at some point. Now _, address your Master properly.”_

He’s forced Down, Quinn’s Voice causing the word ‘Master’ to echo through the subspace threatening to drown him and an image of Coulson comes to mind. Quinn isn’t his Master. Coulson— No. Coulson isn’t either. They haven’t even talked about taking things that far. It’s not something Clint has ever said out loud. Coulson is sometimes his Sir when they’re home. But this isn’t home and Coulson isn’t here, “Noooo. You’re not… You’re. You’re— you’ve done something… Are going to do something. And I… I have to stop you.”

Quinn laughs, “Stupid slut. You still don’t get it. There is no stopping me. There is no escape. There will be no rescue. We’re in the Framework and here I’m not just your Master, _I’m your god._ ”

“Yes, S—” Clint grinds his molars as he spits it out, his brain warring with itself. He’s skimming the water trying to maintain his balance. Beneath the wave is a riptide, “Yes, Sir.”

“See. It can be taught. That wasn’t so hard, was it, slut?

**#88 or #89: Day 3**

Clint’s been stuck on the Chair for at least a week, relative. He lost track of time for a little bit there and thinks he may have died twice in rapid succession after reset 82. He knows the last three days are the longest he’s made it between dying so far. Clint tells himself to keep his head this time. 

Quinn is smug as he asks, “Are you ready to kneel?”

“Yes, Sir,” and it’s nothing. It doesn’t mean anything. He knows he has to watch the slippery slope, to make sure it doesn’t become an avalanche, but this he can do; after all, it’s such a small thing. 

“ _Convince me._ ”

“Please?” Clint asks, his stomach churning but his voice steady, the constant eddy of subspace swirling around him, “Please let me kneel for you, Sir?”

“Perhaps we need to start again.”

“No! No, Sir. Please. Please let me kneel for you,” he swallows then forces out, “Master.”

“If you attack me again I will have you skinned alive.”

As threats go, it’s not ideal. It definitely makes Clint’s list of top ten worst ways to die. If he just had to worry about a random death, if there was a chance making his play and failing might result in something easy like falling from a cliff (at least then he would have those few glorious seconds of free fall) he would have been tempted to try again. 

He still thinks that, just maybe, if he can knock Quinn out he might be able to take over the simulation, maybe find some way to break free of the prison Quinn has made of his mind. 

It’s not much, but it’s what he’s got. 

Besides. Coulson is coming for him. All he has to do is hold on to his sanity until his ride gets here and not give Quinn any sensitive information.

Piece of cake. 

“Please, Master, I only wish to serve,” Clint steels himself and brings out the big guns, “Please let your slut kneel?”

Clint feels the belts disappear abruptly and he slides out of the chair to his knees. He leaves his shoulders slumped, his arms loose at his sides, and his head bowed. 

Quinn steps closer and Clint has to throttle back the urge to rush his legs. He knows he needs to wait for a better opportunity. 

“Now. Kiss my boot, worthless slut.”

He can’t. He can’t do it. Oh God, skinned alive. This is gonna suck. No. He can’t go through that again, “Yes—”

He wants to kill Quinn in this moment more than he has ever wanted anything in his life. 

“Yes, Master,” Clint says and he forces himself down to press his lips against the tip of Quinn’s boot.

“Lick it.”

It turns out being skinned alive is even worse the second time. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Having kind of a rough patch mental heath-wise and am feeling a little vulnerable, so I’m asking for any concrit other than typos to wait until the next chapter. 
> 
> The next couple of chapters are short, I was going to post a bunch in a row but I need a little space as I can’t write right now. If I can get my head back on straight I may post more before next Friday.
> 
> The full series is done and just needs a couple more editing passes and polish; though knowing me I’m going to end up adding a few more chapters before I’m through.
> 
> I may try to work on a couple short fics in the Sunshine ‘verse, as it’s my all comfort no hurt series; if I can that may help pull things along here as well.
> 
> Thank you- Para. 💜

**#96, maybe? Let’s go with 96. It’s started getting hard to keep track: Day 4**

_‘God Damn it, Coulson; where are you?’_

As far as Clint can tell it’s been almost three weeks. Based on the intel they had had on the Framework, it has a massive power draw. For it to have been running this long it should have been easy for Coulson to track down. 

A thought chills him to the bone. 

What if no one is coming?

No. No, even if SHIELD has abandoned him, Coulson wouldn’t do that. He’s pretty sure that Phil loves him as much as he loves Phil and, even if he doesn’t, Coulson’s not the type to let an asset be hung out to dry. 

At least Quinn hasn’t started to dig for SHIELD secrets; Clint knows that will just restart the cycle of death and he’s not sure how many times he’ll be able to hold out against being vivisected.

The good news is that any codes he knows were tagged the moment he was compromised; the bad news is that he still knows enough to damage not only SHIELD and their operatives but more than a few of the world’s governments. Hopefully he’ll be able to sow enough disinformation to make anything Quinn gets out of him effectively useless. 

**#100, maybe?: Day 1**

He feels like he should do something special for his next death. He’s pretty sure it’s the big 1-0-0. 

Of course, it’s probably coming sooner rather than later with Quinn making him beg for and wear that fucking collar. The damn thing drives him out of his mind. 

“Please, Master, please let your slut,” he manages, though his jaw is clenched tight, “Serve you? Please honor me with your collar.”

They’re words he’d never thought he’d say; not out loud. Even then it had only been in his deepest fantasies, the ones that make the butterflies in his stomach dance to the racing beat of his heart. Now that flutter has been perverted into something sick and twisted and he’s not sure he can bear it. 

Quinn raises an eyebrow and Clint tries to sound sincere, _‘Just pretend this is any undercover job, you don’t have to mean it, you just have to convince the mark that you do,’_ this time he does a much better job, “Please, Master, please let me Serve you? Please, let your slut kneel for you?” This isn’t Clint saying it, it’s his cover, “Please honor me with your collar?”

“You may, this time; but only because you’re so pretty when you beg,” Quinn cups his cheek and brushes his thumb across Clint’s lower lip and it’s all he can do to not to bite. 

Quinn unbuckles him by hand instead of making the straps disappear like he normally does; it’s more intimate this way and Clint wishes Quinn had just let him fall to the floor instead of helping him down.

Clint goes to his knees and then bows down to kiss and lick Quinn’s boot, all the while thanking him and begging to be collared. 

He can’t help the tears that prick his eyes. It’s not just the humiliation; though that’s starting to take its toll. A part of him is a little relieved that Quinn keeps him constantly on the edge of going Down, it makes the humiliation easier to bear. 

No, the part that hurts the most is that he’s never been collared before and he had the foolish hope that Phil would be his first. 

“Thank you, Master, thank you. Please, Master,” his cover begs, switching to the other boot, “Please, please collar your slut.”

“Sit up,” Quinn says. Clint wants to bare his teeth but manages to resist. He sits back on his heels and lifts his chin, baring his throat. 

The leather buckles around his neck and he wishes it were the noose that it feels like. 

**#100: Day 3**

He can’t take it. He can’t. Every time Quinn’s back is turned Clint tries to adjust the collar. There’s just enough room for him to fit a couple fingers under it and pull it away from his throat; it’s the only time he feels like he can actually breath. 

Touching it has the problem of making it feel too real; he knows this is all just a simulation but he can feel the leather under his fingers and the way it rests against his throat. It feels real in away that all the torture doesn’t. When that’s not actively happening it’s almost as if the pain belongs to someone else. 

But not this. This is a constant reminder of where he is. 

Of what’s happening to him. 

Of who owns him. 

He doesn’t like thinking of the things he is willing to do to have the collar off, not just because they’re demeaning, but because Quinn has logs of Clint’s every thought and uses them against Clint. 

It’s better to try not to think at all.

**#101: Day 1**

Fuck. This never gets any easier.

**#112: Day 7**

Quinn’s demands are getting harder and harder to follow, though Clint is getting better at saying what the bastard wants to hear without losing control. The worst part is that Quinn doesn’t even seem to care about any intel Clint might have. 

No. That’s not true. That’s not true at all. A hundred or more deaths have taught him how much that’s not true. There is always something worse. 

This reset Quinn makes Clint beg for almost two days straight before letting him out of the chair to kneel. He spends the following three days trailing behind Quinn on a leash. 

It’s strange when Quinn logs out of the simulation but leaves it running. He puts Clint in the library, the leash on a hook on the side of the large ironwood desk, Quinn’s avatar stuck on a limited loop between typing and demanding Clint debase himself. 

What makes it even worse is that he knows, he _knows_ that Quinn doesn’t always check the logs. He’s begging to prove he isn’t a ‘worthless slut’ and the only one who hears him is himself, all because his ‘Master’ has ordered him too. 

That’s right, ordered. Not Ordered. While Quinn uses his Voice to try to keep Clint Down where he’s at least a little tractable, he likes to watch Clint struggle to obey on his own. The combination has Clint bouncing erratically between being halfway Down and going through a Drop fueled shame spiral at any given moment. 

His growing worry over how long it’s taking Coulson to find him isn’t helping. It has to have been three months, at least. Clint refuses to believe Coulson’s given up. He wouldn’t do that. 

He wouldn’t. 

Clint tries not to think about it. He’s given up on trying to end the simulation by taking out Quinn. He’s managed to kill the bastard a grand total of twice and the resulting Punishments (Deaths. Horrible, gruesome, agonizingly prolonged deaths.) have convinced him it isn’t worth another attempt. He’s decided to keep his mind focused on surviving, at least in a mental sense. He won’t let Coulson find him a broken man. He can’t. He has to keep his mind from shattering, to keep his sense of self no matter what he’s forced to do. 

He thinks he may already be more than half crazy. 

Quinn logs in and Clint starts begging immediately, “Please. Please, Master, let your slut prove it isn’t completely,” fuck, this is always so hard, “Worthless?”

Quinn turns in his chair and looks down at Clint, “You’ve been a colossal waste of time so far, slut. What could you possibly give me? You have nothing. _You are nothing. I own you.”_

Clint lets the need to Please Quinn rise and fall away, resisting the call of subspace. If he goes to far Down Quinn will just bring him back up again which will make him feel even worse. 

Quinn’s made him follow him around like a dog, beg for the privilege to kiss and lick his boots, hold degrading positions (Quinn especially likes using him as a footrest); Clint doesn’t let himself wonder what it will be this time.

Clint shudders and swallows down his disgust, “Please, Master? I will do whatever you say. I promise. Master… your worthless slut belongs to you.”

The more he dehumanizes himself, the easier Quinn will be on him. He hopes. 

Quinn grabs his leash and pulls him closer by his collar, “I’m going to fuck that flilthy slut hole of a mouth now. And if I think for one second you aren’t _worshiping me as the god I am_ I will have you whipped within an inch of your life.”

It’s not the Order as much as the fear, the memory, that pushes him Down.

_In a way being whipped and then left alive is almost worse than being whipped to death. Laying on the cold ground in a pool of his own blood; days pass and his back slowly knits together only for the whipping to begin again. The agony makes death a welcome relief._

_Clint dies before Quinn is finished with him. Quinn isn’t happy_. 

Clint’s actually surprised it’s taken as long as it has for Quinn to finally rape him. 

“Your slut swears it will obey,” Clint says, his voice is even but his eyes scream his hatred, “Please, Master? Please use my… its dirty slut hole?” 

Quinn pulls out his dick and it’s insulting how perfect it is. Clint wonders if it’s part of the Framework, the indulgence of an insecure man, but the way Quinn handles it makes Clint think that it’s pretty close to the real thing. 

Quinn’s fingers wrap around his collar and he holds Clint’s face and his dick about an inch apart. Clint’s mouth waters and he realizes he’s further Down than he meant to let himself get; that part of him _wants._

“Beg for it, slut.”

“Please… please fuck my mouth, I want,” Clint steels himself, “I want to taste you, Master. I… I need it.”

“Do better,” Quinn says slapping Clint’s cheek with his dick. 

Clint snaps, snarling as he tries to bite Quinn’s dick.

He spends three days begging for death. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whoops. I was doing an editing pass and ended up posting this earlier than planned.
> 
> I still intend to post the next one on Friday.
> 
> Thank you all for your comments and kudos, they warm my heart.

**#115: Day 12**

Quinn is at his desk, Clint at his feet once again allowed to beg for his dick. 

“Be creative, there’s a lot riding on this for you.”

“Please, Master? Please use your slut. Let me be your fuck toy. Please allow your property to prove that it knows its place. I’m not worthy of your attention but my mouth is tight and wet. Please, let me worship you?”

Clint would scream if he could. 

Quinn’s smile is cruel but it is a smile and he lets the tip of his dick rest on Clint’s lips. 

It has taken a lot of false starts to get back here.

Clint starts to reach out his tongue but stops himself in time. He doesn’t have permission yet. 

“Please,” he breathes out with a shiver. He doesn’t want to want this but part of him knows this is where he belongs. 

It’s where he’s always been headed. 

“Lips only.”

“Yes, Master. Thank you, Master.”

Clint kisses his way down to Quinn’s balls and then back up his shaft; twice he almost licks the warm skin and the third time he slips, his tongue catching a taste of sweat and precum. 

He holds his breath hoping Quinn hadn’t noticed but of course he had. 

Clint’s pulled roughly back by his hair, “Sorry! Sorry, I’m sorry Master. Your slut is a horny fuck toy. I couldn’t help myself. I serve only at your pleasure. Please use me. Please use your stupid slut like the cum rag it is,” the words taste like despair and hate and his stomach turns. 

“I’m going to fuck your throat, you little cocksucker. You do a good enough job and you may even get a reward. You already know the consequences for disappointing me.”

“I’ll be good, Master.”

Clint mentally prepares himself as best he can and relaxes his throat. He counts his blessings that he has almost no gag reflex thanks to a summer apprenticing under a sword swallower. 

It’s rough and sloppy, Quinn holding Clint’s head in place and fucking his dick down Clint’s throat. Clint drools around his shaft and then moans as he swallows. He clutches his fingers in the folds of Quinn’s pants, holding on as though that will keep from Sinking. Quinn wants him to stay Up as he rapes Clint’s mouth, Clint has been told often enough that he doesn’t deserve the comfort of subspace, but failing is inevitable. 

Against his will Clint can feel his own dick press against his fly and it’s an unwelcome distraction. He forces himself to ignore it. 

Quinn finishes on his face, smearing his come over Clint’s lips and cheeks with his dick. 

“What do you say, slut.”

It’s not the worst but it is bad, having to force out the words, “Thank you, Sir, for the gift of your come.”

“Now there’s the matter of your disobedience, slut.”

“S… Sir?”

“I think twenty with the cane will do.”

“Thank you, Master.” 

It could have been worse. It could have been so much worse. 

“Go. Strip and wait in the by the Chair.” 

The Chair is in what Quinn calls the Red Room, the room that Clint wakes up in after each reset. It’s a composite of different adjustable panels, belts, and cuffs that can be arranged into the chair Clint’s so familiar with, the one he starts in after each reset, or a St. Andrew’s Cross, or any number of useful configurations. 

Sometimes Quinn makes Clint adjust the Chair himself, sometimes it’s already set up. This time it’s in position as a perfect height spanking bench. Clint stops next to it and needs a breath before he can take his shirt off. He blinks back tears, unable to ignore the smell of Quinn’s come drying on his face. 

Even harder to ignore is the way it makes him feel. He tries to concentrate on the upcoming beating. 

This is going to be intense. The only time he’s taken a cane to bare skin was with Phil, only once, and that was completely different. Clint refuses to let those memories be associated with this. 

Clint is stripped and waiting on his knees when Quinn makes his way over, a saltwater soaked switch in his hands.

“Up. Over the bench. Lose count and I start over.”

“Yes, Master. Thank you, Master.”

Clint grips the hand holds on the side of the bench and is grateful when Quinn straps his wrists in place. He tries to keep from slipping any further Down, but he knows in the long run it’s a lost cause. 

When it’s done Clint is floating over a black hole of want and need, just barely keeping himself in check. There are four sets of welts, five stripes each, one to each side of his back near his shoulders and a set on each ass cheek. 

It’s not the worst thing Quinn’s done to him, but it’s up there. Not from the pain but rather because of what it does to his mind, how it saps away his will. 

“Footrest,” Quinn says after having Clint crawl back to the desk. Quinn takes his seat, settling into the chair like it’s a throne, and snaps his fingers, pointing to where he wants Clint to be on his hands and knees perpendicular to Quinn. Quinn swings his legs up and rests his boots on Clint’s sore back, digging his heels into the welts and causing fire to race up and down his spine. Clint traps his scream in his throat. 

“Quiet, slut,” Quinn orders, “You know, I think I like you naked at my feet. Better get used to it.”

**#119: Day 15**

Trying to think nothing at all only works for so long. Quinn’s started to read the logs out loud to him while punishing him for each traitorous thought. It’s better to think only of serving Master; the dangerous random thoughts are less likely to make an appearance. 

It’s the only way he’s going to survive. 

**#124: Day 1**

Phil isn’t coming.

No. He can’t think that. It doesn’t matter that it’s been over a year. 

Phil wouldn’t give up on him. 

Which means he can’t lose hope. 

It’s the only thing he has left. 

**#138: Day 43**

He’s riding Master’s cock when it hits him that nothing matters anymore. It’s been years since he’s seen anyone but Master or his guards. He’s lost and no one is ever going to find him. He cries out as Master twists the thick hoops of his nipple rings; his nipples had been sensitive before but now with the rings it doesn’t take much to go from mind-blowing pleasure to pure agony. 

The rings are identical to the ones in his ears and the ones linked into a chain around his waist; each piece paid for with a little piece of his soul. 

When he’s been very good he’s given a sheer loincloth to hang from the chain. If anything it emphasizes his nudity but there's a sense of satisfaction in having earned it. 

That satisfaction tastes like ash in his mouth now. 

A long dormant thought takes hold that at least he could be making this as hard as possible for Master. 

Without warning he strikes Master in the throat, and hearing him choke to death is a million times more satisfying than earning that stupid scrap of fabric had been. 

He explodes on a molecular level. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact: Sword swallowers were instrumental in early throat and stomach medical research over 150 years ago.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you though things were rough before...

**#139: Day 1**

He’s in the chair but he thinks it might be different this time. He’s naked except for his collar, rings, and waist chain. He’s pretty sure he used to have clothes after each reset. 

But that doesn’t make sense. He has to earn clothing, it’s a reward for being a good slut; when he gets reset it’s because he’s been a bad slut. 

And he was a very, very, bad slut. 

As deaths go that wasn’t the worst way to bite it. It was intense, but at least it was quick. Which means that the slut— Clint. He’s Clint. He remembers now— that Clint is probably due a couple more prolonged Punishments.

He wonders if the wait is meant to build dread. Jokes on Master, Clint can’t dread what’s to come more than he already does. 

Turns out, he should have. 

Master comes in with Big and Bad. It’s been a while since Clint has seen them, unless Master wants an audience they’re usually off taking care of the mansion’s security. 

Although what good that does in the Framework Clint can’t even begin to guess. They could be programs, most of the time they’re either just standing there silently or beating Clint unconscious. Clint wouldn’t really be able to tell if they were on a loop. 

“Well. That was… disappointing. And I’ve warned you about disappointing me. If you’re incapable of being the most basic fuck slut, then you’re nothing but meat. And meat gets tossed to the wolves to keep them occupied until they’ve had their fill or there’s nothing left.”

“What?”

Master clicks his tongue, “And here I had thought we had made such progress. Ben, George? Take him.”

Big and Bad unbuckle Clint and manhandle him down from the chair. He struggles, some part of him thinks he knows how to fight, how to use his body like a weapon, but now all he can do is kick and bite like a wild animal until Master grabs his throat, “ _Enough.You will go with them and do everything they say_.”

“No,” Clint protests weakly. 

“ _Yes.”_

Clint tries to pull away again.

“You may think death is better, but I’ve proven you wrong several times. Do you need a reminder?”

Clint shakes his head ‘no’. 

“Then what do you say?”

“Th— Thank you, Master.”

“For?”

“For showing your slut it’s place.”

“No. No you have to earn your place as my slut. For now _you’re just a worthless piece of fuck meat._ Try again.”

 _“_ Thank you, Master for showing your— for showing this worthless piece of fuck meat it’s place.”

“ _Good meat,”_ Clint hates the wave of pleasure he feels at Master’s Praise. 

Master nods towards the guards, “Have fun.”

**#140: Day 1**

Some things are worse than death. 

The meat tries twice as hard to please Master’s security team this time. He knows now there are some things that will never heal. 

He would rather lose an arm again than be fucked to death. 

**#145: Day 12**

Master’s worthless slut shivers in its place at the foot of his bed. It swore to do better this time. But it had failed and now it was going to die. 

Again. 

Last time it had gone almost thirty days between Punishments.

This time Master had been kind enough to let his slut choose its Punishment. It thinks it’s made the right choice, something not too hard but not so easy that Master will double the Punishment.

_‘Please. Please let it have chosen correctly.’_

**#?: Day 23**

It’s been a little over three weeks since the slut’s most recent Punishment. It can’t remember what had made Master mad. It doesn’t really matter. It’s completely out of the stupid slut’s control. It really should try to sleep. Master said he has something new to try in the morning. 

**#?: Day 24**

Something is off. Something’s wrong. Something bad. Master Orders the slut kneel next to his chair at the dining room table. That isn’t unusual. Sometimes Master entertains guests here. Today it’s just Master and the slut. 

This time the smell of the food causes a strange feeling in its stomach. It doesn’t really remember what food tastes like or the feeling of hunger. And that’s what’s different. 

It feels hungry. 

It shouldn’t feel hungry. The… the Framework. It’s in the Framework. None of this is real. 

Wait, no. This has to be real. This isn't a simulation anymore. That's why it’s hungry. That means it has a chance. 

A chance to die for real. It knows there’s only one hope for escape. For there to be no more resets. 

It waits until Master takes a drink of wine and grabs his steak knife, plunging it into its heart. 

**#?: Day 1**

It’s strapped in place, naked except for the jewelry gifted to him by Master. 

It’s still hungry. 

No. No-no-no. This is—

It can’t be. 

“Maybe you need a more visible sign of my ownership,” Master walks in with a strange woman. She has frightening tattoos that twist and change shape, “Your worthless life isn’t yours to take, slut. _You will take what I give you._ ”

The slut is definitely still in the Framework. 

The Framework is all there is. 

All there will ever be. 

She sets up a tool kit next to its arm. 

“This is going to hurt more than a real tattoo,” Master smiles, “Much more. Bone Crane is very good at finding and pressing all the right buttons and I feel like hearing you scream for me.”

**#?: Day 3**

The meat cries itself to sleep. The black bands that completely circle its wrists are blood slicked after the rough handling from Master’s guards. The fuck meat is sticky, covered in countless bodily fluids and so hungry it’s bones ache. 

**#?: Day 26**

The worthless slut delicately takes the bite of pineapple Master holds out for it, carefully licking the juice from Master’s fingers. It’s so good that the slut moans quietly. Master yanks on the chain attached to its collar and it stifles the sound. 

It’s not a full posture collar but it is thick and wide. The slut can turn its head with a little bit of effort, though it puts an uncomfortable amount of pressure on its throat. It’s just enough to remind it to keep its head forward and chin high; it’s been a long time since it has to be reminded to keep its eyes on the floor. Master has it kneeling in Supplication, legs spread as wide as possible, with its ass resting on its heels and its hands palm up on its thighs, the bands of the tattoos are a dark contrast to its pale skin. 

It eats another piece of fruit from Master’s hand, carefully remaining silent. If it’s not quiet Master will take away the solid food and leave the fuck toy nothing but tasteless liquid, if that. It’s chain once held high around its waist by well developed muscles now hangs loosely from one hip, barely held up by the swell of its ass. The slut is hungry all the time. It’s not sure if it can survive without the few treats Master gives it. 

It will do anything not to starve to death again. 

Master is in a good mood. That morning the slut had woken from its place on the floor at the foot of Master’s bed and crawled up as expected to hold his cock in its mouth until he woke. Once Master was ready the worthless slut sucked and licked him to completion, kneeling in Supplication by Master’s side with his seed on its tongue when it was done, waiting for permission to swallow. 

Master had been generous, gifting it with his approval, allowing it to swallow instead of spitting into its hands and rubbing his cum on it’s face, cock or chest. When it disappoints Master with its morning service it doesn’t even get that much. The worthless slut had bowed its head and thanked Master before slipping off the bed to fetch his robe and slippers. 

Master’s breakfast is always a light affair, sliced fruit and small pastries, the scent of fresh brewed coffee— Sometimes the slut thinks it might be able to live off the smell alone; it’s one of the few pure pleasures in its wretched life. 

No. Can’t think that. 

It can’t let Master know it likes the smell of coffee. If Master finds out he will find a way to twist it into something horrible. 

Even more dangerous, it can’t let Master know it’s hiding something from him. 

It knows it’s been a couple months since it was last meat, but the fear of slipping up again looms ever near and the slut works hard to always be on its best behavior. 

It has had Punishment three times since being elevated back up from the last time it had failed so badly as to be meat, but it’s died many more times than that. Master had told the worthless slut those weren’t Punishments. No, the slut died simply because it made Master happy to choke the life out of the worthless thing. It just needs a little practice to learn how to not struggle, to take whatever Master chooses to give it. 

**#?: Day 1**

It was over mercifully fast. The slut blinks, secure in the restraints, ( _Restraint? There’s something there. No. Don’t think. Only_ obey _._ ) it can feel Master’s jewelry and his bands of ownership, always fresh and sore after a reset; either part of its programming, something intrinsic to the Framework, or merely Master’s whim. The gentle feel of silk lets it know that it kept clothing privileges this time. Master was telling the truth. The slut hadn’t been bad. It wasn’t in trouble. This wasn’t Punishment. Being allowed to die for Master’s pleasure is a Gift. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hooray, we are halfway through!
> 
> I apologize for the late posting, today really got away from me. I think it’s just after midnight in Hawaii?
> 
> It’s a tough time out there, but my hope is that the pain and suffering will finally lead get us (USians) the social change we so desperately need.
> 
> My apologies to SPN fans, I promise, I love Sam and Dean and this is no reflection on their actual characters.

**#?: Day ?**

The slut is kneeling in Supplication by Master’s desk in the library when it hears voices coming down the hall. 

Master is entertaining again. 

It hates when Master has guests. 

Guests are unpredictable. Guests like to try and make it disobey. 

It means Gifts if it’s lucky, if it’s good enough, and Punishment if it isn’t. It can’t remember the last time it had either. Sometimes it’s days and sometimes weeks, and it’s not sure why it used to think it mattered. 

The slut can just see them out of the corner of its eye as they come into the room. This time it’s two dominants, both men with tan skin and vicious smiles. One is tall, taller than Master —taller even than the slut when it’s allowed to stand— with dark hair that falls around his face and bright green eyes that see everything; the other is the same height as Master, with short sandy brown hair and dark green eyes that promise pain and suffering. 

Master has been entertaining less and less lately. For a while there had been a steady stream of guests, of Master showing his skill in having trained such a worthless slut. Some asked if Master would train their sluts for them, others for Master to show them the Framework controls. Some even offered to buy the slut, which just shows how great Master is for having trained such a worthless slut into something another Master could possibly want; though the only reason the slut could see for someone buying it would be as meat for their subordinates. It hopes Master will continue to allow the slut to worship him, it has worked so hard to be allowed to serve at Master’s feet. 

“Holy shit, it’s Hawkeye.”

The slut has to choke back the fear and pain that overwhelms it at the sound of the Forbidden word, jerking back and trying to curl inward while still maintaining position. Hearing the word means that the slut might think the word, and thinking the word means the worst Punishments Master can devise. 

“Jesus, you’re right. I don’t know what’s more surprising, Quinn, that he’s a sub or that you caught him. He is a sub, isn’t he?” 

The slut shivers; they’re talking about it. Not just it but it from Before, which is terrifying. Master has Forbidden it from thinking about Before it came into Master’s possession and those early days of its training when it hadn’t just been a worthless slut, but a bad one. 

“‘It’, Dean, not ‘he’,” Master tells the blond, “And it’s not a sub, not anymore. It's just a thing. A thing to be used until you get what you want out of it and then to be disposed of like any other piece of meat.”

_‘Not meat. Oh, please, not meat,’_ it thinks, blinking away the tears that sting it’s eyes, trying to keep its breathing even. 

“So he— I mean, ‘it’; it will really do anything we tell it to? Without any Push?” The taller dom asks. 

“Yes, Sam. Anything. The program is flawless. Results are guaranteed.”

“And it works on dominants, too?”

“Absolutely. In fact, it’s often more effective with dominants, since they don’t have the option of escaping to subspace. This slut has been the most difficult I’ve ever had to work with and it broke within a matter of days. That’s the beauty of the Framework, gentlemen. But don’t take my word for it, see for yourselves. This is a demonstration after all.”

“And you said we can kill it?” The blond asks.

“Any way you would like, as many times as you like, I’ve tasked its controls over to you.”

“Oh, I’m going to enjoy this. Do you remember that job we did with the smug bastard in Toronto?”

“Oh God, it was insufferable. And that’s when we thought it was a dom. I can’t believe this little shit was a sub the whole time,” the taller dom grabs the slut by its hair and smashes its face against the front of his pants, “I bet it was gagging for a taste of this.”

The slut rubs its face against his cock and moans.

“Slut,” Master warns and it stills.

“Your worthless slut is sorry, Master,” it says, muffled by the dom’s pants. It’s head is wrenched back.

“What was that?” The tall dom asks.

“This worthless slut is sorry, Sir.”

“For what?”

“It didn’t have permission to move, Sir. It’s a greedy little cum hole, it couldn’t help itself, Sir.”

“Fuck me,” the blond dom says, “You really have done a number on him— it.”

The tall dom shakes it by its head and asks, “Is that right? Are you hungry for my cock, slut?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Well then, if you want it, beg for it.”

“Please, Sir, please use this worthless slut for your pleasure.”

“Oh, this is going to be fun.”

~~~

“And it’s been how long?”

“A month, give or take.”

They’re talking about the slut, about the last time Master had given it his Gift. 

It’s breakfast and Master is allowing the slut to eat today. It’s on its hands and knees, ass down and leaning into Master’s leg as he feeds it small pieces of toast while he talks to his guest. The bread is more interesting that the conversation and the slut concentrates on licking away any crumbs it can catch off of Master’s fingers.

“And you haven’t had any issues, no backsliding?”

“None at all. I’m telling you, John, the program’s flawless.”

“I don’t need your damned sales pitch. I still don’t think it’s a good idea to try and weaponize it.”

“You should have seen the Roth hit. It was a beautiful bloodbath. Literally. It was brought back dripping and gave new meaning to the phrase rode hard and put away wet. I fucked the filthy slut until it was cumming dry. You should try it some time. And, besides, if it stops working then I’ll scrap it.”

“C’mon, Quinn, what if—”

Master interrupts his guest, “Here, watch. Stand, slut.”

“Yes, Master,” it rises gracefully to its feet, carefully keeping its eyes on the ground, its hands loose at its sides. It’s dark banded wrists are almost even with the silver chain that hangs low around its hips, its sheer loincloth falling nearly to its knees. It feels a small, traitorous, measure of pride; it had just earned a full inch the day before.

It gets a glimpse of Master’s guest; brown hair and eyes, beige skin, and a black turtleneck that matches the cargo pants tucked into combat boots the slut had seen under the table. He’s wearing a shoulder harness with no gun, but does have a knife tucked into his left boot. 

“Pin John to the floor.”

“Yes, Master,” it says, leaping across the table to kick both heels into the guest’s chest, knocking him from his chair, spilling juice, coffee, and water across the table and sending plates crashing to the floor. It uses him as a springboard to roll/flip backwards, landing with its knees to either side of his hips. He punches the slut twice, its jaw explodes in pain but it doesn’t get distracted from drawing the guest’s knife from his boot and holding it to his throat. He holds up both hands, “Quinn! What the fuck! Call it off.”

“Slut, Offering.”

“Yes, Master,” the slut twists so that it is kneeling next to the guest; ass down, knees spread, and holds the knife up balanced on both palms, arms raised, head forced high by its collar it catches the look of fury on the guest’s face.

The guest grabs the knife and holds the point in front of slut’s right eye. _‘Oh, please Master, not it eyes_ ,’ it thinks with a nearly inaudible whimper, not daring to move from position. 

“John.”

“I should cut its pretty face to ribbons, Quinn.”

“What do you think of that, slut?”

“If it pleases you, Master.”

“Beg for it.”

“Yes, Master. Thank you, Master. Please, Sir? Please cut this worthless slut’s face? Please?” It feels tears leak from its eyes and it desperately hopes that Master won’t let the guest cut its face or, if it is what Master desires, maybe he will be generous enough to allow it to beg for Master’s Gift once once it is done; at least then it won’t have to suffer through the long process of healing that much damage. 

The guest lowers the knife, “Jesus.”

“Would you like it to beg for death instead? It will. Or for your cock. Slut, Supplication. Open your mouth, stick out your tongue.”

“Yes, Master,” it places it’s hands, palm up, on its thighs and opens its mouth as wide as possible and offers its tongue.

“I told you John. Flawless.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I’m trying not to freak out over signing up for this year’s [Charity Hawktion](https://charityhawktion.tumblr.com/).
> 
> It’s been, oh gosh, close to a decade I think? since I’ve signed up for any sort of writing anything. I tend to stress out a lot about deadlines (there’s a reason I didn’t start posting I Will Wait For You until I had it 90% done and months of lead time (speaking of, another 5k closer to the end, probably 20k to go, assuming I don’t end up adding more chapters than I’ve outlined)), but this is a long enough timeline, and I have plenty of space to write, so I am more excited/hopeful than scared.
> 
> If you like what I do, like charity, and have $5, please check out the auction once the bidding starts. I’m pretty open on what I’m offering and expecting the fic I write to be around a couple thousand words, but it could be more depending on my muse.
> 
> That’s enough rambling; what is this, a blog post?
> 
> Thank you as always for reading, kudosing, and commenting; please remember to take care of yourselves. 
> 
> Y’all give me life.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter was up late *and* short, so here is the next one as well.
> 
> Mind the tags, especially going forward. It is going to keep getting worse until the very end.

The slut thinks this is the longest it’s ever gone between Master’s Gifts and that it’s been even longer since it has failed enough to deserve a Punishment. It waits for the other shoe to drop, for some new game of torment, or for Master to get bored and decide it’s only meat. 

The slut does its best to entertain Master. Beyond keeping itself, especially its fuck holes, ready for use, Master likes when it asks to play a game; it’s favorite is Arrows, but it knows better than to ask for that one too often. It tries to rotate through the games it knows but it inevitably puts off the worst ones for as long as possible. 

Arrows is both the best and worst of all the games. The slut is allowed to beg for as many arrows as it can, one in exchange for each strike of Master’s cane. If it is sufficiently pleasing in its begging, Master will allow it to use a bow to shoot at the target set up in the upstairs ballroom. 

It hates the caning, more than any other thing Master does to it. Which isn’t to say there aren’t things that are more frightening, or painful, or humiliating. 

No; it’s the way that it pulls the slut Down, all the way Down where it loses any sense of being. 

Or, more accurately, it’s having to come back Up again.

Being allowed to draw a bow makes it worth it. 

_‘Nock, draw, release. Nice even breaths. That’s it. You’re a natural.’_

_‘Thanks, Trick! D’ya think I’ll ever be as good as you?’’_

_‘Maybe someday, kid. Maybe.’_

Shake it off. It’s not real. It’s just a glitch. 

There’s a delicate balance between asking for enough and having sufficient stamina left for it to matter, all buffeted by Master’s whims. Sometimes Master gives it only a few minutes to shoot and sometimes several hours. More arrows mean less time retrieving and more time shooting; but if the slut is too ambitious, if it tries to get too many arrows, it will be too sore to shoot. If Master is feeling particularly cruel, the slut won’t be given enough time to shoot all the arrows it earns. 

Most of the damage from the last game of Arrows has healed up and the slut is eager to shoot again. Master is typing in the library, the slut laying curled up at his feet, resting its head on Master’s boot. When it sounds like Master has paused, the slut sits up cautiously to its hands and knees, keeping its legs together and it’s ass down as it slowly leans into Master’s leg, silently asking permission to speak. 

“What is it, cum hole?” Master says, grabbing it by the hair and twisting it painfully.

“Would you like to play a game, Master?”

“You look like you already have something in mind,” Master says, tightening his grip, “Out with it.”

“May this worthless slut play Arrows, Master?”

“Hmm. I could use a break. But I don’t know that you’ve earned a game of Arrows. Maybe I’ll just cane you for my own amusement.”

The worthless slut’s heart sinks, “If it pleases you, Master.”

Master appears to consider it and then says, “Or, since my little pain slut is so eager to play a game, maybe Needle and Thread. It’s been a while since I’ve sewn your mouth shut and fucked you til you screamed.”

It has to fight to keep the panic from its voice, “If it pleases you, Master.”

“Up,” he says, dragging the slut on to the desk.The slut turns its head sharply to the side keeping its face off the table, the movement putting an uncomfortable amount of pressure on its throat. Master will punish it (or maybe even Punish it) if it gets tears on his desk. Master doesn’t like it when it gets any of its slut juices on his other things. 

“If you can make me cum without moving your hips, you can play Arrows. If not then we’ll play Needle and Thread.”

Master slowly works the large plug free from the slut’s asshole. It feels like it’s being torn apart and it has to bite its tongue to keep from crying out. Master sets the heavy metal plug in front of the slut’s face and he Orders, “ _Watch that_.”

Then Master is thrusting in quick and deep; the slut’s mouth opens in a silent scream. 

“How does that feel cum hole?”

“It hurts, Master,” it pants, “Thank you, Master. Thank you for hurting this worthless slut.”

The plug had been slicked up when it had been forced into the slut’s ass after dinner and the slut desperately hopes there’s enough lube and cum in its ass to keep it from any lasting damage. Even as stretched out it as it’s ass is, Master has been fucking it with minimal prep for several days and it feels worn and sore. Every inch of Master’s cock makes its slut hole throb. If Master tears its asshole it knows it won’t be lucky enough for one of Master’s Gifts to reset it and it knows better than to misbehave in the hopes of being Punished. Death is a privilege for Master to grant or withhold.

“Well? Get on with it,” Master says, slapping the slut’s ass hard enough to leave a mark. 

The slut starts squeezing its sore asshole around Master’s cock, doing it’s best to find a rhythm that will please Master. It’s hard to do as Master continues to slap its ass and then grabs both cheeks, spreading them wide with his thumbs to watch as his slut’s asshole tightens around his cock. 

The slut feels so exposed it can’t help but shiver. Master’s fingers dig into its skin with bruising force as a warning against moving. The slut clenches its asshole tightly, knowing each contraction will make it that much harder to take the plug back in when Master’s done. 

Its nipple rings, waist chain, leash, and own hard cock are crushed between the slut’s weight and the desk and it’s an added distraction, the points of sharp pain making it that much harder to concentrate. It hopes its sheer loincloth is enough to keep the slut juice from its cock from smearing on the desk.

So many distractions and worries and subspace is calling it but it can’t let go. If it goes Down then it knows it won’t be able to hold back from fucking its hole up and down Master’s cock and cumming on Master’s desk. If that happens there’s no telling when it will get another chance to play Arrows and it’s terrified of Needle and Thread; to say nothing of what other consequences there might be as it doesn’t have permission to go Down. At a minimum, Master will cane it bloody for his own amusement and then punish the slut for losing control. 

“There. Like that cum hole,” Master says and the slut whines deep in its throat at the wave of pleasure it gets from Master’s praise. The call of subspace is nearly unbearable. It can feel sweat beading all over its body and it stretches its arms to grab the edges of the desk.

“That’s it, my dirty little slut. Milk your Master’s cock like a good fuck toy. I own this hole. _I own you.”_

It feels a flash of pleasure with Master’s Claim; his Voice starts to pull it Down and it thinks, _‘No! No, don’t. Can’t Slip. Have to stay focused. Almost there,’_ Master is close, the slut just has to push him over the edge. 

“Yes, Master! Yours! You own this worthless slut. It’s holes are yours. You own it body and soul. Please cum, Master? Please cum in your pain slut? Use it for the only thing it’s good for,” it wants to be good for Master. It Needs to be good. 

Master cums with a roar, one hand coming around to lift the slut up and back by it’s chest, the other wrapping around its throat, pressing the slut against his body as he fills its hole with cum. The worthless slut sees stars and just barely keeps from cumming itself. 

And then Master throws it to the floor and sits back in his chair breathing heavily.

The slut shakes and moans, squeezing its legs shut and clenching its cum hole as as tight as it can, trying to keep Master’s cum from oozing out of it even as it struggles against the need to cum and the Pull of subspace ( _Undertow._ ) but it doesn’t have much time to compose itself as Master drags its head to his lap and Orders, “ _Get to cleaning_.”

It’s enough to force the slut that little bit Down, not much but enough that the slut’s body lights up in pleasure from the throbbing pain in its ass. It fights its way back Up, it can’t let Master notice that it Slipped. It laps and sucks at Master’s softening cock, cleaning away any trace of his cum as drags itself out of subspace. 

When it’s done it lifts its chin, getting a little head rush as this eases some of the pressure from its collar. It keeps its eyes appropriately down and says, “Thank you, Master, for your cum. Thank you for using your worthless slut.”

“It seems my slut has gotten a little worked up.”

“Yes, Master.”

“Let’s get that plug back in place while I decide what to do with you, cum hole.”

It wants to shake its head, to beg Master to leave its abused hole alone but it's better trained than that and at least the plug will prevent anymore of Master’s cum from slipping out of its ass, “Yes, Master. Thank you, Master.”

Master arranges the slut over his lap and then the slut feels the plug probe between its ass cheeks. 

“Please, Master?” The slut whines as it jolts away from the cold unyielding metal as it presses against its over sensitive hole. If it had stayed Down it would be begging to fuck its self back on that monster, but without the warm embrace of subspace ( _Ocean. Drowning._ ) all it promises is pain. At least it’s lucky enough to have Master arrange it so that it’s cock hangs down between Master’s legs instead of pressing on one of them, keeping it from getting its slut juice on Master’s pants. 

“Don’t you want your plug?”

It really, really, doesn’t, “If it pleases you, Master.”

Master slaps it’s ass with his free hand, “I asked you if you wanted your plug?”

“Yes! Yes please, Master. Please fill your slut’s fuck hole. Please keep your slut ready and open for your use.”

“I think you can do better than that,” he begins to thrust the narrow tip of the plug in and out of the slut’s hole. 

_‘Oh, fuck. Fuck, it doesn’t want this,’_ it thinks traitorously, _‘Please, no_.’

“Master, please? Please let your pain slut have its plug. Your worthless slut needs to be stretched and filled, to be kept ready for you. Please hurt your cum hole? It only wants to please you, Master. Please?”

“It sounds like my pain slut hasn’t been hurt enough.”

“No! Please, no, Master!”

“No?!” Master grabs the slut’s hair and shakes its head.

“Sorry, Master! Sorry! It is here for your pleasure, Master… if it pleases—,” it chokes back a sob as Master’s fist tightens in its hair and its tears fall to the floor. 

_‘Oh, God. Oh, fuck, it’s going to hurt_.’ 

It prays for mercy, though it knows there will be none, “Please… please, Master… please fuck your pain slut with its plug.”

“Good cum hole,” Master says, letting go of the slut’s hair and fucking the plug deeper and deeper. Master’s approval has it feeling another wave of Need and subspace is right there; all it has to do is Fall, just a little bit and it will go Under, turning Master’s pain into unearned pleasure and making its submission easy instead of having to fight to meet Master’s demands. It isn’t a good slut but sometimes when it’s Under it thinks maybe it could be. 

When the plug gets to its widest point the slut feels like it’s being ripped in half and it whites out for a moment, subspace sucking it Down and causing the feeling to echo in on itself. It knows it’s Master is still fucking it’s hole but the individual thrusts mean nothing; it’s all pain, pain becoming pleasure becoming pain. 

Master finally grows bored with the torment and seats the plug deep in the slut’s ass, “ _Tighten up_ ,” he Orders with a slap and the slut does so, one long drawn out moan spilling from its mouth as it forces the ring of its asshole to close around the stem, the curved flare of the plug pressing up into its taint.

The slut is tumbled back down to the floor and it moans again. It’s skin feels electrified and it can’t think straight. It crawls into position to kiss and lick Master’s boot, “Please, Master?” It begs in between lapping the top of his boot, “Please may your slut cum?”

Master uses his boot to push the worthless slut on its back and it catches a glimpse of Master’s smile. 

It isn’t a pleasant smile. 

“Alright, cum slut. On your knees.”

The slut comes up to Supplication; its hard cock tenting the sheer loincloth, the material turning dark where it drags against the wet tip. 

“You can use the rings. That should be more than enough for such a worthless pain slut. Be quick about it. My patience is limited.”

The slut uses both hands to touch the nipple rings at the same time, slowly twisting them, and it tilts its head back in pleasure as the sensations sing through its body straight to its cock. 

The leash hangs down between its legs and if the slut sways just so it can get it to brush against its erection. It’s cheating, and courting disaster, but it can’t help itself. 

“ _Eyes Front._ ”

“Yes, Master. Thank you Master,” the slut whimpers, a sick dread twisting through it as it’s allowed a rare chance to look at Master’s eyes. Its training has been thorough and even though it’s an Order it can only think, ‘ _Punishment, Punishment, Punishment._ _The slut is unworthy of looking its god in the eye._ ’

It remembers one particularly awful week when Master had taken both its eyes at once, leaving it to serve its Master blind. It was one of the few things worse than Punishment. Almost as bad as being meat. 

The pleasure bleeds away as the surge of terror from thinking of the last time it was meat knocks it out of subspace and it’s lust falls away from it but it knows it can’t stop now. Not without angering Master. 

It pulls on the rings, the light tap of the leash against its cock is more maddening than helpful. Usually, its sensitive nipples bring it more torment than pleasure but for now its sensitivity is working in its favor. It feels like there’s a live wire connecting it’s cock to its nipples and there’s a sensation that could almost be called relief when it’s ready to beg for release faster than it thought possible, “Oh, Please, please let your worthless slut cum, Master? It’s close. So close.”

The slut sees it clearly the moment the decision is made, just as the slut is about to pass the point of no return, and despair swallows it; it knows there is nothing it can do. 

“Stop,” Master says, not even showing enough mercy to make it an Order, forcing the slut to hold back its orgasm by will alone. 

“Oh, oh Master, please! Please? Please?” It can’t, it’s too close. It’s going to come and then it will be Punished. 

It’s the returning terror that cuts off its orgasm just before it cums and the despair dances with nausea for a couple of beats before it gets control of itself. It pants, knowing how lucky it is, as just as often fear pushes it into an orgasm instead of away from one. 

“No. You’re done. Eyes back where they belong.”

Its cock and balls ache, but it could be so much worse, and it’s grateful that it was able to obey and that Master cares enough to hurt it, “Y.. yes, Master. Thank you for hurting your worthless slut, Master.”

Master must be satisfied because he lets the slut catch its breath. Its cock still strains upwards and the slut has to remain completely still for a moment or risk fatal, or worse, disobedience. 

The slut’s still breathing heavily when Master snaps his fingers and points at the leash.

It’s barely calm enough to move again; it’s cock is hard and throbbing under its loincloth and it wants to touch it so bad; but Master’s orders are absolute. It concentrates on the looming Drop to try and snuff out the urge to cum. 

The slut shifts into Offering, knees still spread wide but now it lays the leash across its palms and holds it up for Master, filled with equal parts dread and anticipation for what comes next. 


	7. Chapter 7

The worthless slut has to scramble to keep up, the hardwood floor is jarring against its knees and palms as Master leads him to the Red Room. Master’s chief of security is already there and has arranged the Chair into a St. Andrew’s cross. 

“Everything ready, Ben?”

“Yes, Mr. Quinn.”

The slut freezes as a memory swarms over it out of nowhere, a terrifying experience that has been happening more and more frequently. 

_Clint_ _is cut in countless places, every patch of skin exposed by the Chair’s belts is covered in blood. The straps themselves are slick with it._

_“Fuck you, Quinn! I’m going to fucking kill you,” he snarls, “Slowly.”_

_“No, slut_ you’re going to die,” _Quinn replies, his Voice_ _drilling into Clint’s brain, “_ Slowly.”

 _Clint fights the_ Order _, thrashing against the restraints—_

Restraint. 

There’s that word again. Why does it seem so important? It must mean something but the slut can’t remember. It shakes off the vague impression of a strong jaw and deep blue eyes flecked with gold.

It’s thankful the word, whatever deeper meaning it may have, has stopped the glitch from going any deeper. The slut doesn’t want to remember. Memories are bad. Master will be angry, so very angry, if he finds out it has any memories of Before, from when it was a bad slut. It can’t even begin to imagine what Master would do if he found out the slut remembers letting Master’s name touch its filthy face hole and saying such terrible, disrespectful things, or that it thought it had a name, much less that its name was one of the Forbidden words. 

_‘Sluts don’t have names.’_

This time it’s lucky as it looks like Master either doesn't catch or doesn’t care about the slut’s distraction. It prays that Master doesn’t look at today’s logs. 

Master hands the leash to the guard, “Prep the slut.” 

The worthless slut is yanked up to the cross. The guard drapes the leash through the vee of the cross and then steps around it to pull the slut up against the metal frame leaving its back exposed. The guard lifts the slut’s right hand to the grip. He starts to grab the wrist cuff and then smirks, dropping it back to rest against the cross.

“Sir? Please, Sir, may the worthless slut have the cuffs?”

This earns it a vicious backhand, one that slams pain up the slut’s jaw and leaves its ear ringing. 

“No. Now remember, _meat_ , don’t let go _,”_ the guard says, pulling the slut’s left hand into place.

Behind it, Master is swishing the saltwater soaked cane. 

“I still haven’t decided whether or not to let you have any arrows. Maybe I will. Maybe I won’t. You’ll just have to find out when we’re through.”

The slut begins to cry silently, knowing it deserves what’s coming, that this is what it gets for being a greedy slut. It was a mistake to ask for Arrows. It should have known better. And now Master is changing the rules. ‘ _Stupid slut.’_

It can’t let itself get mad at Master. The slut’s only purpose is to be used at Master’s whim and even in that, time after time, the slut proves how truly worthless it is.

“You’ll still beg for each stroke and, if you don’t ask for enough, once I am done with you I’ll give you to Ben and his crew for the night.”

“Oh, Master, please don’t?”

“What was that, slut meat?”

“If— If it pleases you, Master. Thank you for playing with your worthless slut. Thank you for letting your slut serve you.”

“Ben. Would you like a taste before we begin?”

“Thanks, Mr. Quinn.”

The guard comes around to press his cock against the slut’s ass, his pants rough against the slut’s skin. He probs between its legs to twist and tug on the plug and he bites the slut’s ear before saying, with anticipatory menace, “I’m gonna fuck you up bad, _meat_.”

The guard grabs the slut’s chin and turns his face so that he can lick away one of the slut’s tears. 

“Alright, Ben, that’s enough. You’ll have plenty of time later.”

The slut knows it’s lost the game before it even starts. 

The guard steps away and there’s a swish and then a thudding sting across the crease between its ass and right thigh; before the searing pain can follow it the slut begs, “Thank you, Master. Please, Master, may your slut have another?”

The strike causes its asshole to tighten even further around the plug, but the pain both on and in its ass does nothing to flag it’s erection, instead it feels it’s cock become impossibly harder. It really is Master’s pain slut. It’s grateful Master is willing to give such a worthless cum hole the pain it deserves. 

After placing a lattice of agony across the slut’s ass, Master works a ladder of welts up its back on each side of its spine, starting well above its kidneys. It wonders for a moment why Master is keeping the slut relatively uninjured before reminding itself not to question Master’s motives. When they reach twenty, the slut hopes it’s enough. 

The slut has been screaming with each stroke since the fifth one and its voice is rough as it begs, “Please. Oh, God. Please Master? Please may your worthless slut have another?”

It loses sound for a second, flooded with pain and static, and the call of subspace is nearly irresistible. It’s one of the things that makes Arrows such a dangerous game.

It can’t do it again. It can’t. The next one will send it Down. But it knows. But it also knows it hasn’t been enough. It’s hands are slick with sweat on the grips and it won’t be able to stand much longer. 

If only Master would let it Fall into subspace.

Except no. That would make it easier and Master doesn’t want it to be easier. 

One more. It needs to ask for another. It knows it does but it can’t make itself do it, instead it begs, “Please, Master, may your slut go Down?”

“No.”

“Please? Please, Master. Your worthless slut wants to obey, but it is weak.”

Master sighs, “I’m in a generous mood. If you can guess the number I’m thinking of, you’ll get that many and then you can go Down.”

“Oh, thank you, Master! Thank you, thank you, thank you,” the slut thinks hard and fast, it has to be enough to make Master happy but not so many that it will be forced into subspace before it has permission—

_“Four m’,” Clint says, proud of having kept count (he thinks) and wanting an even ten. He knows he’s going to feel them for days and he’s looking forward to counting them over and over._

No! No, not now! Not able to fully shake off the glitch, it hazards, “F… four, Master?”

“ _So close, slut. But no._ No. It was five. Since you missed, it’s doubled,” the slut closes its eyes, thankful that it seems to have guessed right. Master was always going to say it was higher and it’s grateful it’s only ten more, though even that will be pushing its limits, “If you go Down, I won’t stop until you pass out and then I’ll give you to Ben and his doms for a week.”

No. Oh, fuck, _no._

The slut sobs, “Master, please, Master—” It cuts itself off before it can beg Master not to make it meat. 

It should have never asked to play Arrows, it should have just taken Needle and Thread. It has no hope that Master will actually stop at ten, that it isn’t about to be caned unconscious and left to the guards' ravenous appetites for a week, which means each reset will be worse than the last. It moans in anguish. 

By some miracle it manages to stay Up and upright for the last ten strikes. It’s throat is raw and everything is pain. And it prays that it’s enough.

“I didn’t think you would make it. I’m not sure I can disappoint Ben.”

It can barely hold on to the grips, and isn’t even sure why it keeps trying. It’s nothing but meat now, it doesn’t matter what it does. 

_‘Stupid greedy fuck meat,’_ it will never ask for a game again. 

No, it’s lying to itself. It knows it needs to keep Master entertained. Maybe next time if it asks for Needle and Thread to start with Master will be more lenient?

“I suppose you did earn some time in subspace first. _Down_ ,” Master Orders.

“Oh, thank you, thank you, Master,” the fuck meat releases the grips. _‘Master is truly a merciful god,_ ’ it thinks as it collapses to the ground, finally allowed to let itself get sucked Under. Down. Down. Down. It’s terror becomes sweet and pure; it tastes its pain as music and it can hear the colors that surround it as they blur together in a kaleidoscope of sensation. 

It is pain and it is fear and it is despair and all three are as endless as the pleasure, all one and the same; and something twists inside the fuck meat as it realizes the existential truth of what it says deep in its bones, grateful for all Master has given it, “Thank you for hurting this worthless fuck meat, Master. This meat loves you, Master.”

It isn’t sure how long it’s been riding the wave of pain/pleasure/pain when it all comes crashing down. Cold saltwater is poured over the broken welts and it screams with no voice as it’s ripped from subspace. The fuck meat shivers, curling into itself. 

“Kneel.”

It hurts. It hurts so bad. And the night will only get worse from here.

Stupid meat. 

It crawls towards Master, shaking uncontrollably. It slowly gets into Supplication, twitching as the movement lights up a network of pain. 

“That was fun.”

“Thank you, Master,” it croaks out. 

“I’m pleased, slut.”

The pleasure from Master’s approval makes it moan, which causes it’s sore throat to ache; then it processes what Master said. Master called it _‘slut’_? “P… pleased, Master?”

“5 arrows. Thirty minutes. Starting now. Then bed as soon as you’re done. You know better than to keep me waiting. Sorry, Ben. Maybe next time you’ll get a chew toy for your team.”

The relief is almost overwhelming as it bends over to worship Master’s boots, licking and kissing as them in reverence, “Oh thank you, Master! Thank you. This slut isn’t worthy. It loves you, Master.”

The guard lifts the slut roughly by one arm, “Come on, _fuck meat._ ”

Being torn out of subspace has left it at once numb and raw and it hasn’t been trained to the guard’s Voice like it has Master’s; the words wash over it with no effect.

“Oh, and Ben?”

“Yes, sir?”

“The slut still needs to earn the bow. I’m sure you can think of something.”

It feels a swoop of dread and hopes that it will, if not survive, at least meet a quick death. The security team’s tastes run even darker than Master’s. It doesn’t have any hope that it will actually make it to the range. 

Master is happy and that’s all that really matters. 

“Thank you, sir,” the guard answers and then follows up with, “Justine’s on duty.”

Terror strikes its heart so quickly and deeply it thinks it may be saved by a heart attack, but then it’s never been that lucky.

“She can have a taste, too. Just leave it in one piece and in working order when you’re done with it.”

Stupid, stupid slut. It’s brought this upon itself. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I almost forgot! Charity Hawktion has started!
> 
> I’m here: https://charityhawktion.tumblr.com/post/620805354728636416/paraprosdokia-hawktion-contributor-page


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know you it’s gonna get worse before it gets better?
> 
> As always, mind the tags.

The guard has the slut walk instead of crawl and it finds itself cautiously grateful for the leniency. It follows the guard docilely to the security room; the worthless slut tries to stay the required three steps back and to the left, but the guard keeps yanking the leash and it barely keeps from stumbling each time. The guard pushes it to the floor in front of the weapons locker and the slut can’t keep itself from crying out as it’s sore ass hits the ground, the plug jostling inside it. 

The guard watching the security feeds turns to watch them, a predatory look in her eyes. 

Any of the other guards would have been better. ( _Teeth and knives; begging for death, but there is no escape.)_ It shivers where it huddles on the floor, pushing away the memories. Memories are always bad. 

“Please, Sir?” It whimpers, crawling the last foot to cling to the locker, “Please let this worthless slut earn the bow.”

The senior guard laughs cruelly, “You cost my team a full week’s entertainment. Maybe I’ll just take you up to the range and watch you throw those fucking arrows at the target.”

“You could always fuck it with them,” the junior guard suggests. 

“Would you like that, slut? To be _arrow fucked? To feel your precious arrows rip you apart?”_

The guards Voice is nothing but for a moment the slut can’t see straight at the fear and sense memory. It finally manages to answer, “If… if it pleases you, Sir.”

“If it pleases me?” He snarls, lifting the slut up by the throat and shaking it. It claws at the guard’s arm as it chokes, struggling against the iron grip, its feet kicking at the air a few inches above the floor. 

“What if it _pleases_ me to choke the life out of you, _fuck meat_?”

This time it feels the slightest edge of a Pull at the sound of the guard’s Voice. Not enough to do anything with but enough to know it's there. 

Will Master be more upset with the slut for disobeying the guard or with the slut for dying without his permission? 

It makes its choice; praying that it’s the right one, the slut steels itself and goes limp; it’s always better to obey and resisting the guard is pointless. 

Master doesn’t reset it, it isn’t being Punished for allowing the guard to kill it. It must have chosen correctly; and though it means no bow, no shooting, its Master is benevolent, allowing the slut to be reset with such a relatively painless Gift. 

“Jesus. You’re determined to take the fun out of everything aren’t you?” The guard tosses it back down on the floor. Not a Gift after all, though maybe a test. 

Did it pass or fail?

It doesn’t matter. 

Nothing does. 

The guard kicks it in the chest, driving what little air it had been able to catch from its lungs. Then he kicks it again, this time in the face and it feels its nose break.

It cries out and curls up in a ball, waiting for the next blow. When it doesn’t come it gets up unsteadily into Offering. 

“Please let this worthless cum hole serve you, Sir?” The last kick had also split its lip; between that, its broken nose, and its raw throat every word is misery. 

It aches anywhere it doesn’t feel pain and all the slut wants to do now is lay down and cry. 

“Fine. _Get that slut mouth over here._ ”

“Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”

It crawls to the guard on its hands and knees; once it’s close enough it sits back on its heels and spreads its knees again. It goes to unbutton the guard’s pants with its mouth but before it can the guard backhands the worthless slut, worse than before. The slut’s vision blurs and can feel blood start to well from a cut above its right eyebrow.

“ _You’re fucking filthy._ Use your hands to get my cock out, you _worthless piece of shit,_ then link your fingers together behind your head and _use that dirty fuck hole to get me off_.”

“What about me, boss?”

“You can do what you want with the other end as long as it doesn’t interfere me raping its throat.”

“Fantastic,” she purrs. Coming up behind the slut she digs her fingernails into its hips and yanks its ass up into the air. It sways, trying to keep its balance as it unzips the guard’s pants and carefully pulls his thick cock from his briefs. Once the guard’s cock is free it places its hands behind its head as directed. 

It licks its lips, tasting blood, and then uses its tongue on the underside of the guard’s massive length. It leans back to get the end of the guard’s cock in its slut hole and tongue his slit. His cock is so much bigger than Master’s, the tip alone fills its mouth and the slut wishes the guard had wanted its asshole instead of its face hole. 

The junior guard kicks its heels apart and then reaches between its legs to tug its balls. Until now it had been able to ignore the nagging need to cum or Drop or go Down; now the discordant pleasure from having its balls touched, painful as that touch is, causes it to edge back towards subspace and it moans around the cock violently forcing its way into its throat. It’s more than the slut’s wrecked mouth can take and it gags and coughs as its throat gets battered. 

The junior guard crouches down, reaches around the slut to move its loincloth out of the way and begins stoking its dick; her hand is rough, the worthless slut’s precum not nearly enough to ease the way. She whispers in it’s ear, “I’m going to carve you into pieces and then _fuck you_ with the knife.”

It whimpers and tries to shake its head but it's pinned in place by the senior guard’s cock. 

She bites its shoulder, breaking the skin; its scream gets trapped in its throat, its air blocked by the brutal face fucking it’s receiving. 

Tears stream down its face, mixing with the blood dripping from above its eyebrow to its cheek and from its nose, which is so swollen it can’t breathe through it. The combination of the cock down its throat and the pressure from its collar has it choking from inside and out and its vision starts to dim. 

It suddenly has air again as the senior guard pulls clear of its throat. It forces its mouth even wider, feeling the split lip tear further, in order to gasp around the cock still filling its suck hole. The senior guard grabs its head and fucks his way back in, muffling the slut’s sobbing moan. The slut rubs its tongue around the cock as best it can, it’s jaw aching from the effort to keep its teeth out of the way. 

“There. Just like that. _Keep crying, pain slut._ I’m gonna break you in half. _Fuck that dirty cum hole down on my dick._ ”

The surface level of subspace remains tantalizingly within reach. All of this would be so much easier if it was allowed to go Down, even just a little bit. 

No one would have to know. 

No. Master would know. Master has the logs. Master knows everything. 

The hand around its cock turns into a claw and the junior guard digs in, scratching at the delicate skin as she strokes it. She twists the base of its plug and pulls it out just enough to stretch its asshole painfully. The slut thrashes in place trying to pull away from her sharp teeth and nails; it’s barely able to keep its arms up and hands in place as the guard bites her way across its bicep. 

She lets go of the plug and the slut’s cock to grab the leash and loop it across its throat, over the collar, and it has to strain at the pressure to keep fucking its mouth hole down the other guard’s cock. She presses her elbow into its spine and she growls, “ _Stay still, meat._ ”

It presses its linked hands into the back of its head, trying to brace itself while she places matching bite marks on its other shoulder and arm.

“Hey, Ben, mind if we turn it over? I want to bite its dick.”

The senior guard grunts, slowing its thrusts.

“Yeah, let’s flip it. It will give me a better view of my dick choking its throat. But no permanent damage. Boss’s orders.”

He grabs the slut’s hair and drags the well worn fuck meat off his cock. With a twist of his hand he turns the slut around and then pulls its head back. 

It’s still on its knees, now facing the junior guard. She scratches her nails down its back, catching them on the welts and cuts from the cane, digging them into its ass she bows its body until it’s hips are pressed as far forward as possible and it’s back is highly arched.

“Before I force my dick back into that tight little slut hole, _suck my balls._ ”

“Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir,” the slut says hoarsely. 

The slut bends further over backwards and sucks the guard’s balls into its mouth, one at a time, laving them with its tongue and then sucking its bloody spit back off the hairy sacks. 

Meanwhile the other guard starts biting him again, pulling its chest up by its nipple rings, and it feels it’s cock throb at the pleasure/pain. She places three bite marks in a row above its left nipple, piercing its skin with her teeth, before the senior guard pulls his balls out of the slut’s mouth and shoves his cock back down its throat. 

The junior guard unzips her pants and pushes her hand between her legs, dragging her fingers between her wet folds and then rubbing at her clit. She twists its nipples again and then places a bite opposite the mark from the senior guard’s boot. She bites its hip and then licks away the blood, her fingers moving faster. 

It would have thought that between the hard use of its throat, the ruthless biting, and the continuous throbbing of its cock it would have been distracted from the ache building from its thighs up to its neck but the slowly building tension has it trembling. It doesn’t know how much longer it can hold the position, but it dare not fall. 

The junior guard rakes her nails down the center of its chest and then licks her bloodied fingers, her other hand continues to rub her clit, while the senior guard pauses with his cock lodged in its throat. He pushes his fingers between the collar and slut’s throat but there really isn’t enough room and it starts to choke. The slut desperately works its tongue on the length filling its cum hole. He pulls out and the slut gasps for air. The guard stops choking it and slaps the slut’s face with his cock a couple times, it’s slut juices mixing with the guard’s precome.

“Look at the mess you’ve made. _Suck it off,_ ” the senior guard Orders. The taste of blood, tears, and precum are almost overwhelming. 

The junior guard grabs its balls, squeezing them tightly as she leans down to bite the inside of the slut’s thigh. She cums as her teeth break the skin and this bite goes deeper than the rest; it trembles with the effort to keep its mouth loose and open.

This seems to set the senior guard off and he starts to cum over the slut’s tongue before pulling all the way out and finishing on its face.

“ _Clean it_ ,” he Orders and the slut Obeys, licking the guard’s cock until he pushes down on the slut’s head and it collapses to the floor, a lost and broken sound escaping its chest.

“Face, too,” the junior guard says, smearing its face with her cum soaked fingers and then holding out her hand for it to clean. 

Once it’s licked her fingers to her satisfaction, the slut finally lets its arms out of position and it wants to shout at the pain from having kept them in place with so little movement for so long; at least it’s better than the numbness that it had feared. It uses its fingers to wipe the mess off its face, flinching as they brush across its broken nose, it pushes its fingers into its bruised mouth and sucks on them.

The senior guard jabs one end of the bow into a bite mark in this chest, “Look at that. Almost ten minutes left. Of course, maybe you’d rather cum. I can see you’re hungry for it,” the guard uses the bow to strike its cock and it lets out a hoarse scream. 

“You can beg for one, slut; what do you want more, the bow, or to cum? I’ll even let you go Down.”

As much as it wants to go Down, as much as it needs to cum, and even with so little time left on Master’s clock, it’s no contest, “The bow, Sir. Please? Please, Sir, please may it have the bow?”

The senior guard checks its watch, letting the seconds pass.

“Oh, God, please, Sir; please tell this stupid, worthless slut what it needs to do for the bow?”

“You got blood on my boots, cum hole. Lick them clean and you can have the bow,” the slut gets to work immediately, shifting to it’s hands and knees and licking away the blood that spots the guard’s boots as quickly as possible. 

It sits back in Supplication, “Please, Sir?”

Precious seconds pass before the guard says, “Alright. On your feet. Take the damn thing before I change my mind.”

“Thank you, Sir,” the slut bends down and kisses the guards boots, “Thank you.”

It takes a couple seconds for the slut to get to its feet and gratefully take the bow.

The senior guard grabs its leash and leads it upstairs to the ballroom, while the junior guard returns to her station, missing the subtle movement of the shadows at the edge of one of the monitors, the one for the camera outside the gatehouse. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hallelujah, y’all, I just need to massage the final confrontation with Quinn and then that’s a wrap on I Will Wait For You. I’m going to start posting this series daily since I expect to be done by tomorrow. (I’m guessing I just need another 500 words or so and to makes sure it all flows together and I’m not missing any loose ends.)
> 
> Also, a reminder that I’m doing the Charity Hawktion this year, bidding is open until 10 pm UK time, Saturday June 20th. 
> 
> My entry is [here](https://charityhawktion.tumblr.com/post/620805354728636416/paraprosdokia-hawktion-contributor-page), and a full list of offerings [here](https://charityhawktion.tumblr.com/post/620849378034401280/hawktion-2020-creator-masterlist).
> 
> You can also find my tumblr [here](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/paraprosdokia), where my ask box is always anonymous and always open.


	9. Chapter 9

The guard leaves it alone, it's a well trained slut and will stop at the allotted time without supervision. It will return to Master’s feet as soon as it is done. It’s cock had finally started to go down and it hopes Master will let it curl up on its place on the floor at the foot of his bed and sleep without further torment, but it knows that isn’t likely. 

The slut doesn’t let itself rush as it checks over the bow, ensuring everything has been maintained properly and it’s in good condition to shoot. It then takes three of its precious minutes to get set up, the slut has to drag the heavy target out from its place in the corner and it almost passes out while strapping the quiver to its back.

It considers forgoing the quiver, it’s more than capable enough to handle five arrows without it, but wants the full experience. The feel of pulling, nocking, drawing, and releasing into another pull, nock, draw, release. It wants to savor it; it doesn’t know if it will ever be able to ask for Arrows again, though tonight has been far from the worst it’s ever had to live through. 

The slut has to push down the need to collapse, to let the dark spots of its vision overwhelm it, to embrace unconsciousness and stop feeling, if only for a moment. But even then, its dreams only offer a different sort of torment. 

Not to mention how much that would displease Master.

There is no escape. Not in dreams. Not in death. Not even in subspace. There is nothing but pain and waiting for pain. The closest thing to escape is this. The bow. The arrow. The target. Pull, nock, draw, release. The anticipation is almost as good as the real thing. 

Instead of giving in to the pain the slut focuses on appreciating its reward. It earned this. Paid for it body and soul, for whatever little value they hold. And gifts are rare enough to be treasured, no matter the circumstances. 

It could shoot quickly, loose the arrows two or three at a time and perhaps then it could have a couple volleys but it is determined to revel in this, to build a memory for refuge. 

No. No, memories are bad and while it is a worthless slut, it’s not a bad one. 

It will enjoy the moment to the fullest until it has passed. 

What other option does a worthless slut have?

Getting into the proper stance pulls at its damaged skin and presses the collar into its throat. The leash is a distraction and it moves it to hang down its back, even though it adds more pressure to its throat this way. 

Then it breathes, fully, for the first time in forever and everything falls away except the bow, the arrow, and the target, all held together by the invisible string of its will and the steady rhythm of its breath. With its next breath in it pulls an arrow from the quiver, nocks it, and draws the bowstring. 

Breathe out and release. Breath in: pull, —

All in a smooth movement, like clockwork. 

The first arrow is off target by nearly an inch. It has to adjust for the slight tremble in its arms that it can’t stop.

—nock, and draw. Breathe out and release and breathe in and pull—

The second is dead center and the thrill of success, deep breathing, and repetitive motion has it slip into that other space. 

— And nock and draw. Breathe out and release— 

The place that’s like subspace, but not. Instead of hazy pain/pleasure/pain, it’s clarity and focus. And love. Pure love. The slut loves this. More than anything. 

Even more than Master. 

As it nocks the fourth arrow it hears a noise on the balcony and the slut is startled out of its rhythm.

This is new. 

It swallows, wincing as much at the ache in its throat as the thought.

New is never good. 

The balcony door opens and then there’s a dom standing in front of it with a gun held at his side. He has pale skin, dark hair, and a full beard. He’s dressed, like most of Master’s guests, in all black: turtleneck and cargo pants tucked into combat boots with a knife sheathed in one of the boots; this guest is also wearing a long leather coat and matching gloves. 

“No,” it breathes out softly, forgetting itself and letting the word past its slut lips without permission.

 _‘Worthless slut’s don’t get to say no.’_

It has two arrows left and it isn’t time yet. It’s not fair. But then, it knows better than to expect fair. 

This is a test. It has to be. But what kind?

The slut draws and aims at the guest, trying to determine what Master wants it to do. 

“Clint?” The dom says softly and it feels a shock of pain through its entire body at the Forbidden word. 

“Sir. Please, Sir,” the slut begs, “Something else, please?”

Hearing a Forbidden word can mean days of Punishment; and even worse, hearing it puts it at risk of thinking it and thinking it means any Punishment will be a thousand times worse. 

Why is Master doing this? Had he looked at the logs? Does he know about the treacherous glitches it’s been having? 

“Something… What?”

“It would never think a Forbidden word, Master.”

“Master?”

“Master is always listening,” it says, still trying to figure out the rules for this test. 

“Shit,” the guest says, looking around the room, “We have to go. Now.”

No. Oh no-no-no. The slut has learned. It knows better. There is no leaving. 

Is this because of its blasphemy, for loving something more than Master?

“Please, Master. It loves you. Only you and nothing else,” it knows Master will see it for the lie that it is; that Master will likely take away the arrows for good, but it has to try. 

The guest takes a step forward, reaching out his free hand palm up, “Clint,” the pain is just as bad the second time, “I’m sorry it took me so long, sweetheart. Please, you need to come with me. I’m here to take you home.”

“It is home, Sir,” it says in confusion. 

“No!” The guest snaps and the slut shies away, “This isn’t your home.”

“Sir, please,” it begs, “This slut knows its place.”

That makes the dom angry, though he buries it quickly; for a moment there he has been almost as terrifying as Master. The strain of keeping the bow drawn is starting to be too much, it can’t hold this very long. It needs to make a choice to shoot Master’s guest or accept his authority.

“I don’t want to force you, but I will if I have to; I’m helping you escape whether you like it or not.”

Oh, God. What if it’s not a test? 

What if it’s a game?

It hates Escape more than any other game. It’s been months since it’s been forced to play it, long enough that it thought (hoped, though it should know by now how dangerous hope is) Master had forgotten about it. 

It can’t do it. It can’t run from Master. Master is everywhere. 

Running from Master means Punishment. Refusing to play means Punishment. Losing means Punishment. 

It should have known something like this was coming. It deserves it for being such a disloyal, disobedient, worthless slut.

“There is no escape, Sir,” it says, hoping (stupid slut) that this is all test; that Master merely wants it to prove that it knows its place is at Master’s feet. 

“Yes there is, Clint,” The pain and terror are nauseating. 

“Please, please it hurts, Sir.”

“What hurts?

“The Forbidden word, Sir. It won’t think it, it promises.”

“The Forbid— Your name?”

No. No! It can’t think that; it can’t, “Worthless sluts don't have names, Sir.”

“Jesus Christ,” he swears, “Okay. Okay, I won’t say it, if you come with me right now.”

What is it supposed to do? It just wants to obey its Master. Earlier it seemed to have done the right thing by giving into the guard’s impulse to choke it to death; if the guest wants it to try to escape, the best way to obey must mean trying its hardest to do the impossible. 

If it’s lucky, though it doesn’t deserve it, it will get a quick and easy death. Maybe one of the guards will shoot and kill it. Being shot isn’t a bad way to die.

But no. It can’t let itself get shot. If it’s playing, it has to do everything it can to win, it has to show Master that it will always obey, no matter the consequences. 

This all started with it asking to play a game. Stupid stupid, _stupid_ slut. It should have known Arrows wouldn’t be enough for Master. If it had kept its dirty slut mouth shut, or at least offered a better game to start with, it might not be in this situation now. 

“Master? Master, if it pleases you, your slut will try to Escape?”

While waiting for a response it runs scenarios as quickly as it can. Master hasn’t given it any hints on what to do and so it commits to playing Escape; the alternative is to crawl to Master and beg forgiveness and Punishment. If this isn’t what Master wants then maybe that will still be an option, not that Master is ever inclined towards forgiveness. 

It will never make it out the window and down to the ground. Not with the condition it’s in. It’s barely on its feet as it is. It will have to go through the house, “This way, Sir.”

It checks the hallway before leaving the ballroom, “Clear, Sir,” some echo of a memory prompts it to say. 

No. No memories. 

The guest passes him and heads to the stairwell, “Clear.”

They leapfrog their way out of the mansion, stopping once when they come up on the senior guard, the slut’s arrow pierces his throat and pins him to the wall before he can raise an alarm, then there’s a brief pause once more as they pass the security room. It’s unnecessary but the slut takes a moment to shoot the guard still on duty, catching her through the back, severing her spine and ensuring she has a slow death. It had killed the senior guard too cleanly. Master always wants it to be as vicious as possible when they play this game. 

It’s out of arrows but that’s okay, they’ve made it to the lawn which means Master will be pulling the plug any second. The slut grips the bow tightly instead of dropping it, not knowing when or if it will ever be allowed to touch it again. 

It isn’t sure why it was allowed to get this far in the first place but it savors the rare opportunity to be outside the house and the terrifying and yet exquisite feeling of freedom, no matter how false. The slut hopes it will be some measure of comfort during what’s to come. 

“ _STOP_ ,” Master’s Voice rings out over the PA, “ _KILL HIM_.”

It feels a twisted sense of relief in knowing it’s over. The slut grabs the guest by the throat, lifting him from the ground, “Yes, Master.”

The guest pulls at its fingers and gets enough air to Whisper, “ _Let go_.”

It Sinks in one fluid moment, down to a place where nothing hurts and everything is beautiful; the pain and fear are no longer acrid and sharp but instead sweet and sumptuous. Going Down has never felt like this. 

It releases the guest— No. Its Master. He is its Master now; his Voice is all consuming, it’s all the slut wants to hear, forever. And even though Master’s Voice is stronger than anything it can remember, it’s touch is as light as a feather. 

“What are you doing, you stupid slut! I said _KILL HIM_ ,” it’s former Master’s Voice rings out but it means nothing to the slut, not under the power of its new Master. 

The slut slides to its knees and rests its cheek on Master’s boot, “How may your slut please you, Master?”

“I’m so sorry, baby,” Master sounds sad, “I had to.”

“You will regret this, you _worthless piece of meat_! You know the price of disobedience.”

“Come on, Cl— Come on. Stand up for me. We need to run,” Master crouches down, picking up the forgotten bow from where it had fallen and helping the slut up. The slut feels a wave of joy as Master touches it, his hand plucking minor strings of pleasure/pain where he grips the slut’s arm over one of the bite marks. 

“ _STOP. NOW, or there will be no end to your_ _Punishment_.”

The slut shivers but it’s easy to ignore the Order; Master’s control is complete. 

They sprint to the gate, it’s former Master shouting Commands and calling for his guards. Master leads it through the gatehouse and the slut feels a wave of satisfaction at seeing the pool of blood surrounding the dead guard. 

Master takes off his jacket, “Put this on, quickly.”

“M… Master?” It asks, confusion warring with shock. He can’t mean for the slut to wear Master’s clothes!

Master cups the slut’s cheek and it leans into the touch with a sigh. “It's cold.”

The slut hasn’t earned it but it can’t disobey. It bites its lip and the pleasure/pain/pleasure ends its indecision. It will do anything for Master, no matter how wrong.

“If it pleases you, Master.”

“If— Yes. Yes, it will.”

Master helps the slut put on his jacket and it wraps its arms around itself, hugging the supple leather against its battered body, Sinking further into the pleasure/pain as it swims in the coffee and woodsmoke scent and warmth of its Master. It's better than anything it’s ever known. 

Next thing it knows it’s straddling a bench of some sort as Master orders it, “ _Hold on to me_ ,” he pulls the slut’s arms around his waist, pulling the slut’s upper body flush against his back, “ _Don’t let go_.” 

It has never been more happy to Obey. The slut presses its broken nose against the side of Master’s neck. The throb of pain quickly turns to pleasure and it moans, “Like this, Master?”

“Yes, just like that,” Master says, but he doesn’t sound happy.

“Has your worthless slut done something wrong, Master?”

There’s a sudden tension in Master’s body and it cringes. The stupid slut knew it had done something, and now it’s made it worse. 

“No,” Master says, though he is still tense, “You haven’t done anything wrong, sweetheart.”

The bench starts to vibrate. No, not a bench. It’s a motorcycle. Master is taking him away from the mansion. He’s keeping the worthless slut. 

The slut is warns itself that this may be part of some longer game or that any second it will be reset but for now everything is too perfect for it to care.

The slut sighs and presses itself more firmly against its Master’s warm back, lighting up the pleasure/pain it feels throughout its body, heightened by the bike’s vibrations. It presses its lips to Master’s neck in a chaste kiss, hoping he won’t notice or if he does he will wait until later to punish the slut. It whispers, “Thank you for keeping your slut, Master,” as the competing sensations lull it down to that place where all that’s left is how good it feels. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, we’re through the toughest part; this marks the halfway point. I’m not gonna lie, it’s not all sunshine and rainbows from here on out, but there is a happy ending.
> 
> Eventually.

**Author's Note:**

> (Sorry if this is repetitive.) Now that this series is complete I’m adding in my fan space information if you want to follow me anywhere.
> 
> Since I’m not sure which fic in the series is drawing everyone in from, I’m going to c/p my info here.
> 
> It turns out I am terrible at tumblr; it used to be my main fandom space but then my brain broke and I can’t keep up with it anymore. I would still love it if you followed me, I will follow back, I always love making new fandom friends.
> 
> I’ve set up accounts at the links below, I am going to try to keep all three updated.
> 
> Twitter: @ParaprosdokiaCC  
> Ko-fi: https://ko-fi.com/paraprosdokia  
> Patreon: https://ko-fi.com/paraprosdokia  
> Tumblr: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/paraprosdokia (am I doing this right?)


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